My phone is a child magnet

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I cannot talk on the phone.  Because every time I try, it is just like I am holding a magnet up to my ear.  A magnet that attracts loud, screaming, fighting, needy children within 2 feet of my person.  Children who are otherwise happily distracted, who see me on the phone must talk to me RIGHT THEN in their LOUDEST VOICES while I try to make an appointment or confirm a shipment. 

What is up with that?

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the unbearable lightness of family

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We saw a new staging of Peter Pan last night.  It was an intense experience on many levels.  I will write more about the show in a sec, since being a theater critic was my #2 career aspiration in college (#1 being a correspondent role on The Daily Show, but alas not all dreams come true).  First, I feel like I should write out some of the profound adoption themes that the show brought up for me.

(The mom bloggers and kids before the show)

I
’ve never thought of Peter Pan as a story about adoption.  I’ve never thought much about it at all, really.  It was one of my least favorite Disney movies as a child, in part because I think it deals with some really existential themes that sort of made my head explode as a child.  Mark loved the story as a kid.  To him, it was a fantastical story about the possibility of flying and the dream of being a kid forever.  To my neurotic little brain, it just opened up to many questions.  Why isn’t he growing up?  Is the maturation process affecting his body AND his mind?  Is he gaining maturity through experience or is it stunted at the same rate as his body?  and WHY?  WHY WON’T HE GROW UP AND WHAT WILL HAPPEN TO HIM AS HE AGES AND WHY OH WHY IS THIS HAPPENING?

(For full disclosure, I’ve never been one for fantasy.  As a child, I also hated any movies about talking animals. I found cartoon situations where characters were killed and then revived (via steamroller, anvil, etc) to be VERY TROUBLING,.  And I’m not even gonna get into my feelings about the whole Freaky Friday body-swapping scenario.)

(Also, I’ve always hated the cheesy musical version of Peter Pan, in which a middle-aged woman with a waif haircut sings showtunes while being hoisted by a string above the audience. NO THANK YOU).



\This production of Peter Pan was a decidedly more adult version than the Disney cartoon, so I think it I finally caught that this story is scratching as some serious existential issues, beyond those of swashbuckling pirates and believing in fairies.  And in addition to the obvious exploration of growing up, there was also a heavy exploration of the state of being motherless.

I really couldn’t help drawing parallels between Kembe’s ambivalence towards having a family, and the orphan experience of the Lost Boys.  In so many ways, I saw Kembe and his friends in the Lost Boys . . . .not because they were “lost”, per se, but because they were a group of boys without parents, having a blast together but also missing out on some of the developmental experiences of being parented.  Watching the Lost Boys as they pushed and pulled with their desire for a mother vs. their disdain for discipline and adults in general was very familiar.  It was almost painful hearing Wendy try to convince the boys why they needed a mother, and why an existence of unattached revelry could not be superior to missing out on a family.  It’s a hard sell to a child.  This is exactly where we are at with Kembe today.  He’s just not quite sure that this family thing is worth it.  He longs for connection, but he also resents the accountability that intimacy brings.
In the play, all of this is solved in the act of adoption.  Much like the “happily ever after” portrayal of fairy-tale marriage, the Lost Boys are fulfilled . . . redeemed . . . and they grow into men with “boring jobs and full lives”.  If only in real life it were that easy.  I know that Kembe misses his motherless existence – his band of brothers who delighted in seeing what they could get away with, and fighting over who would be top dog each day.  I also know that a family is better than his Lord of the Flies environment, even though he is feeling the loss.  Even in the story, we see what becomes of children who never attach and form empathy for others: this theme is played out in the pirates, who are self-serving and miserable and yet still long for a mother to care for them.

But convincing a three-year-old of that is not so easy
.
(I think the picture above might actually be his Freudian fanstasy right now . . . me wounded, with him free to rule a small army of other children willing to do his bidding.  But I digress).

At the end of the play, we are left with a forlorn Peter Pan, who seems wistful of the life he has missed.  But then we see him spirit away Wendy’s daughter, and we are left feeling wistful ourselves, for that magical lost childhood.  My hope is that for Kembe, they will not be mutually exclusive.  Nevertheless, it left me thinking about how hard it is for Kembe to surrender to the security of family after the life he had in the boy’s home.  Because, it was not a bad life.  It just wasn’t a life that was going to prepare him to be a secure and attached adult.

Anyways, enough of me blathering about the existential issues . . . how was the show?  It was good.  It was really good.  Perhaps a bit heavy for a three-year-old and a five-year-old, though they seemed engaged the whole time.  There was some cursing and killing that was a little inappropriate, though my kids completely ignored the words ass and damn and then loudly proclaimed that a bad word was used (!!!) every time someone said the word stupid.  I’m sure the people in front of us appreciated having the language police sitting behind them.

The set was amazing and really, the highlight of the show.  It was like seeing a play under an Imax theater.  When the characters flew, the scenery changed and it really felt like the were flying over London.  The actors were good (though perhaps a little heavy-handed . . . at times it felt a little “Shakespeare in the Park”.  The set was minimalist, which kept the focus on the screens above.  The flying was pretty phenomenal and I loved the mermaids doing trapeze work from hanging fabric.  It was like Cirque du Soleil meets Imax.  All in all, I would give it four out of five stars, and recommend it for kids age 8 and up.

See?  I should totally be a theater critic when I grow up.


**If you are thinking of taking kids, hop over to the OC Register website where Amy Stevens highlights some of our recommendations.

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peter pan!

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Tonight we get to go see the premiere of Peter Pan with the Orange County Register! We are so excited . . . can you tell? This new staged version looks so good, and I think I am going to love it as much as the kids do. It's playing at Orange County Performing Arts Center all week.

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it doesn’t take much

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We had a fun, lazy Sunday yesterday.  It was a reminder how easily my kids are entertained.

The kids painted some old boxes that had been lying around the garage.  (I got these tempura paint cups from Lakeshore and I love them.  It makes impromptu painting sessions much easier).

 

Then the boys spent about an hour using the boxes as spaceships/battering rams on the trampoline.  I was sure this would end with someone getting hurt.  It did.  But they had a blast.  TOGETHER.

Then the girls and I had a pizza party picnic.  It is amazing how leftover pizza and a blanket on the ground can make leftovers into a party.  Throw in some decaf chai tea, and these girls were feelin’ fancy.

It doesn’t take much . . .

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that’s what she said – choice theory edition

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Self-Concept and Birth Motherhood
I love the questions that are being raised in this post.  She’s framing the question around birthmothers, but I think it is relatable to anyone who has faced major life-changing events.  How do we define ourselves based on the tragedies or regrets in our life, and is anger a useful tool for creating our self-concept?  The comments are thought-provoking, too.

The Case Against Breastfeeding
I thought this article did a great job of exploring the difficulty of breastfeeding, and the impossibility of maintaining an egalitarian marriage when one person is the exclusive food source.  I think theses issues should be talked about more.  I am pro-breastfeeding, but like this author I am a bit dismayed by the shame involved for women who don’t/can’t.  An excerpt:

“In Betty Friedan’s day, feminists felt shackled to domesticity by the unreasonably high bar for housework, the endless dusting and shopping and pushing the Hoover around—a vacuum cleaner being the obligatory prop for the “happy housewife heroine,” as Friedan sardonically called her. When I looked at the picture on the cover of Sears’s Breastfeeding Book—a lady lying down, gently smiling at her baby and still in her robe, although the sun is well up—the scales fell from my eyes: it was not the vacuum that was keeping me and my 21st-century sisters down, but another sucking sound.“

Freedom’s Just Another Word For So Much From Which To Choose.
Catherine Connors is in South Africa, and makes some personal discoveries about privilege and choice theory.  An excerpt:

I’m not saying that we should stop discussing and debating and dithering over our parenting choices. I’m just saying that we should remind ourselves, always, that these choices are a luxury, that the very fact that they exist as choices is a marker of our privilege, and that they no more reflect what is truly right and what is truly wrong and what is truly good and what is truly bad than do any of our other choices – the choice between whether to study literature or engineering in college, say, or the choice between whether to eat organic or to just go for those tinned peaches, because it’s easier and you love the syrup – and that they are just matters of us deciding how we want to live.   Because most of us have those choices – perhaps in greater and lesser degrees, sure, but we do. We do.   Other people, in other places, don’t.

I Didn’t Know You Worked
Jillian Lauren, author of the book Some Girls, talks about her difficulty justifying writing as a “real job” and the double standard for women and working.  An excerpt:

It’s my experience that not just as women but specifically as mothers, we have to not only fight harder for the solitude to create, but we feel guiltier about doing so than our male counterparts. I don’t think this guilt is ultimately serving either me or [my child].

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full fall

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Our October calendar is quickly filling up.  I don’t know about you, but our schedule is always feast of famine.  We will have days or weeks of relatively nothing on the books, and then everything sort of happens at once.  October is like that for us.  I will be travelling three weekends in October, and although I’m really excited about all of it, I’m already feeling exhausted.

Next week Mark and I are headed to Austin for the Together for Adoption Conference.  This is a conference that reaches far beyond  just adoption/adoptive parents, and really seeks to mobilize the church to care for orphaned or abandoned children in a variety of ways.  The day before the conference, Karen Purvis will be doing a seminar for families who have already adopted.  I’m really excited to learn more about adoptive parenting, and even more excited to meet/reconnect with some of the other adoptive parents who will be there.  I am a featured blogger for this event, and each day there will be a lunch panel with the featured bloggers.  Mine is on Saturday.  If you are coming, pop over and say hi.  Because I’d love to meet you.  And because the Livesays are on my panel, and really, you want to hear what they have to say because they are AWESOME.  (So are the other bloggers, I just don’t know them yet).  And also, because I have contrived a blogging feud with Jamie Ivey and I’ve talked a lot of smack about how our day will have more people.  DO NOT LET ME LOSE FACE IN FRONT OF JAMIE IVEY. 

(I’m not really a competitive bully.  I only play one on Twitter).

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In the middle of October, I am going to another blogging event. 

There are three reasons why I’m really excited about this one:

1. It’s local(ish)
2. It’s only 40 women (so, pretty much the opposite of Blogher)
3. It is with a group of women I admire

Seriously, I think this promises to be an amazing weekend and I am looking forward to being inspired and connecting on a deeper level with other women who share my passions. (And if you are interested I hear there are three spots left . . . )

_____________________________________________

And then there is this:

There is no rational explanation as to why I am going to this, beyond the fact that I have had a massive crush on Jon Steward since his Talk Soup days, and the fact that I have a very generous husband who told me to go for it. (He is generous in both his willingness to let me go on trips AND in his patience regarding my feelings for another man.)  My friend Sarah and I started bantering on facebook about how much we wanted to go.  At some point we called each others’ bluff and found cheap tickets to DC.  Thanks to a certain small mouse, I have a decent number of Marriott points, so we’ll be doing our girl’s weekend in style.  

It’s a bit much.  But I’m excited.

 

 

 

*By the way, if you are local, the International Princess Project is having their yearly gala tomorrow night.  It’s a great event for a great cause: International Princess Project is a nonprofit organization that empowers women formerly enslaved in prostitution to restore their lives.  They establish micro-enterprise sewing centers in partnership with indigenous Indian organizations who rescue and care for women escaping the sex trade.  IPP gives them an opportunity to learn a trade -- sewing. The ladies make pajama pants, called PUNJAMMIES, which are sold through their website.  VIEW THE INVTE HERE.

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what I want you to know: down syndrome

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Today's post is by Jennifer, who wants you to  know about having a child with Down syndrome:

What I want you to know is that when I was 20 weeks pregnant with my second child, I got a phone call that changed my life for good.  This phone call delivered the news from my amniocentesis test, that revealed that my baby boy has Down syndrome.  I will admit that my first reaction was one of utter devastation.  I had outdated ideas of what Down syndrome meant and God forbid, you actually Google it- a laundry list of medical and neurological issues come up.  For me, there was no question of whether or not to keep my baby- I was already feeling his strong little kicks and bonding with him.  Since he was my second child, I was dreaming about the attachments I knew I would have with him, but I was terrified. Terrified that our life would never be the same. I quickly started trying to adjust to the news, backed away from the research; Googling, and got in touch with real-life families who have a child with Down syndrome.  The outcome these families shared was far from devastating. 

By the time I delivered our son, Elijah, we were excited to bring him into our family. He is now almost 5 months old, is rolling over, playing with toys, smiling, laughing and brings so much joy to our family.  When I first got the news, everyone had the same reaction- to say, "I'm SO sorry!"  At the time, I thought, it's okay that everyone says I'm sorry, because it's not at all what you expect.  But, now I know that what we feared most are the outdated, preconceived notions of Down syndrome...and I wholeheartedly believe that these outdated preconceptions lead to the devastating fact that 92% of the women who get a prenatal diagnosis, decide to terminate the pregnancy!  That's right- I am one in 8% of women who keep their babies after a prenatal diagnosis.  Those percentages hurt me to my core now that our baby Elijah is here.  Because he is healthy, he is beautiful, and in my eyes, he is Perfect. It hurts that 92% of the people in my position would say that my son isn't valuable enough to have a life. 

I want people to know that Down syndrome isn't nearly as isolating, scary and devastating as it's been painted to be in the past.  ....And that I am am not old, or decrepit, or fuddy duddy...(although since I just said "fuddy duddy", I might be quickly brushed into that category!! )  :)  I want people to know that words DO have power...and where I once thought, A rose is a rose by any other name, I know now that words hurt and it is important to choose words that honor all people with respect and dignity.  Some examples:
A Down(s) - A person with Down syndrome is not the disability. There are many other things that should, and do, define a person.  It is dehumanizing and strips people of dignity when they are referred to as their disability.  Instead of saying "He is a Down's baby" or "She is Downs", try "He or she Has Down syndrome."

Down syndrome child/baby - This goes back to referring to the person first, not the disability.  This is one of the most common misstatements made and often  causes parents to cringe, at least inwardly. (This is where I interject an enthusiastic "True!") For example, we don't say "a diabetes child," or "an asthma person", so eliminating this reference is critical.

Normal Kids - Please realize that we perceive our children as being pretty normal kids.  Comparing them to normal children implies that a child with Down syndrome is something less than normal.  Try using, "Typically developing" or "non-disabled child".

"They" as in "they are so loving: they are always happy" - Don't generalize about people with Down syndrome. "They" are not all alike. Much like non-disabled children, kids with Down syndrome have a full range of emotions and will mature and grow into adulthood.

"How mild/severe is it?" - A person either has Down syndrome or they do not. Down syndrome is not an illness. Having Down syndrome does not mean a person is sick.

Suffers from/Afflicted with Down syndrome - Our children are not suffering or afflicted. We must instill  a great sense of pride and self-esteem in all children, so our language must show that Down syndrome is not harmful or terrible, or anything to be ashamed of.


Me, Jennifer, my husband, Charles, my 3 year old, Christian, and our baby boy (with Ds) Elijah.

Jennifer Currier
www.MeAndMyBoysBlog.blogspot.com

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as I was saying . . .

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Jafta’s open house was tonight.  As I approached the classroom, I noticed the teacher had posted pictures that each child made, along with their answer to the question, “What is your favorite part of kindergarten?”  Jafta’s answer:

“My favorite part of kindergarten is going to the cafeteria because I buy lunch.”

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lunch money

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Jafta is stoked on kindergarten so far.  I’m actually a bit shocked at how little complaining there has been.   One of his favorite things about school is the “hot lunch”.  He loves everything about it . . . the greasy food, the compartmentalized plates, but especially the fact that he gets to take a wallet to school and buy it himself.  It all makes him feel very grown-up and self important.

We’ve been letting him get hot lunch on Tuesdays and Thursdays.  I’m not a huge fan because it’s not very healthy, but he really loves it so two times a week is the compromise.  The first few days we sent him with $3 in change.  Because we had no small cash (or any cash) on hand, we had to raid one of the children’s piggybanks.  We sent him to school with 12 quarters in a Spiderman wallet.

Last week we finally got our act together and sent him with three dollar bills.  We failed to point this out to him before school.  When he came home from school that day, he was very upset with us because he had not had any money to give to the ladies at lunch.  And then we were like, um, YES WE DID.  We sent money with you.  And he was like, no you didn’t.  And Mark pulls out the three bills that are still in his backpack and says, SEE!?  And Jafta says, “I know.  You only sent those dollars, but no money!”

And suddenly we are playing a “who’s on first” game with Jafta because at five years old, he does not quite understand that paper bills are money, too. 

(This could be because, as referenced above, neither of us ever actually have cash on hand.  I am the mom who tries to use my debit card at the school bake sale, and huffs out of the carwash for their “cash only” policy).

We got that worked out, but I was so sick of trying to keep cash on hand that I went online and pre-paid for his lunches.  Oy vey.  Now Jafta was even more stressed out.  I tried so hard to explain that I PAID FOR HIS LUNCH THROUGH MY COMPUTER.  But even as I heard the words coming out of my mouth, it sounded insane.  Jafta was so worried about whether or not this would work, and how the lunch ladies would know that I had already paid.  We finally agreed, on Jafta’s request, to write an affidavit of payment that he could carry and present to the lunch ladies at proof.  Which he did,

Tomorrow is Thursday.  He is pre-paid for what sounds like a lovely breaded chicken sandwich on white bread.  And he has insisted that we write another note for him, even though I’ve paid online.

I wonder how long we’ll need to do this?

(Knowing Jafta, all year long).

Oh, my sweet neurotic son.  You can argue all you want about nature vs nurture, but I know this much is true: that boy is ALL ME.

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if you give a mouse a drainpipe

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We are finally settling our accounts for all of the repairs that had to be made from The Great Flood and Exile of 2010 – which seems like a very dramatic description of a laundry load consisting of two towels.  But lest you think I’m being overdramatic, this rodent did some hefty damage.  And as it turns out, it wasn’t even a rat.  It was a tiny little mouse that wreaked all of this havoc.  By taking a bite out of the drainpipe of the washing machine, and setting into motion:

• emergency water removal: $2.000
• evacuation and storage of furniture: $4.000
• asbestos removal: $6.000
• hotel rental, five weeks: $6.000
• home repairs (new drywall, flooring, etc): $19,000
• furniture loss: $1.600

All I can say is, thank God for homeowner’s insurance.  Although the good people at AAA were very regretful to inform us that the policy would not cover direct rodent damage, only the resulting flood.  So we are on our own to replace the $300 washer we bought at Sears.

I think we will manage that minor expense, all things considered.

Oh, and we had to pay for the poison ourselves, too. 

 

RIP, MOUSE IN THE HOUSE

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twice as nice (the beans and rice revolution)

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Figuring out how to feed our growing family has been a challenge this year.  I don’t know why, but I find lunches especially challenging.  Probably because  I find grocery shopping especially challenging. 


I never seem to have all of the right ingredients for lunch.  Menu-planning has never been my forte.  Maybe I have bread, but no peanut butter, or sandwich stuff but nothing to serve with it . . . and every family member has their own particular request.  It’s like I need 57 ingredients to feed the five of us lunch each day.  And packing lunches for school?  Ugh.  HATE IT.

Before Kembe came home, I made beans and rice on occasion.  I had been inspired by some friends who had done a one-month challenge where they only ate beans and rice for dinner, and then donated what they saved to their daughter’s fundraising efforts to buy a well.  (Check out her blog). 

I started making beans and rice more frequently when Kembe came home.  It started out as an attempt to make a familiar food for him.  In all of the transition inherent in international adoption, culturally familiar food is kind of the least we can do.  And luckily for me, being raised in Florida with many Caribbean friends gave me a very healthy appreciation of the black bean.

The more I experimented with beans and rice, the easier I found it to make.  I used to think it was complicated, what with all the soaking and boiling but the crock pot makes it really simple.  There is one caveat: you have to plan it the night before.  But other than that, it really is just about the laziest thing on the planet to make, and to keep on hand. Because it basically involves this:

1) Put beans and water in crockpot before bed.  Turn it on.
2) Put rice and water in ricecooker before lunch.  Turn it on.

That’s it.  No watching a pot, no assembly of various sandwich fillings, no microwaving or stirring or menu-planning.  With very little forethought, I can feed us lunch by stockpiling two ingredients in my pantry.  Beans and rice.  Okay, and garlic salt.  God bless the garlic salt.

In addition to being a lazy option, it’s also cheap and healthy.  I can feed my entire family for about $5 this way, and it’s vegetarian, low-fat, whole grain, and rich in protein.  Lately, it has become our staple lunch entrée.  I stock up on brown rice and black beans from the bulk section of Henry’s or Sprouts, and then I make up a huge batch at the beginning of the week.



I’ve even figured out how to make it portable.  When we are headed to a playdate or a park, it is SO much easier for me to scoop some beans and rice into a thermos than it is to plan out sandwiches or wraps.  I’ve even started to pack it up for preschool. 


Another advantage: impromptu playdates.  This stuff seriously multiplies itself when people come over.  When kids are hesitant, I cover it in shredded cheese.  That usually does the trick.


So, in case I am converting you to my “rice and beans” revolution, here is how I make it.  First, you need a rice cooker and a crockpot.  If you don’t have these items, they are so worth the investment.

(You might be thinking – but can’t I just cook them together?  The answer is NO.  You gotta keep ‘em separated).

Like I said before, the beans I start before I go to bed.  There are many recipes that call for soaking and boiling, etc.  But I’ve found that starting 1:2 parts beans to water at about midnight on LOW will give you perfect beans by noon the next day. (Edited to add: I fill my crockpot to the brim and can leave it on high all night, but I'm hearing that is not working for others).  I’ll talk about seasoning below, but that’s the basics.

For the perfect rice, it’s all about rinsing the rice first.  I soak the rice for about 15 minutes and then run water through it until the water is clear.  This keeps it from getting mushy.  If you’ve soaked the rice and drained the water off, you can usually add equal amounts water to rice for cooking. 

If I’m feeling fancy, I will doctor up my rice with a little olive oil, garlic, cilantro, a bouillon cube, and a splash of rice vinegar and agave.  But most of the time, rice and salt do the trick.

There are three ways I season the beans, but no matter what I throw a bay leaf in when I start.  There is something about that bay leaf that releases the gas-causing agent in the beans.  This is a good thing.  Especially if you live with a former youth pastor.

I don’t measure anything.  I’m lazy crazy like that.  If the seasoning isn’t great, you can doctor it later.

Lazy Version Black Beans
The lazy version, which is actually Mark’s favorite, is all dried goods.  Beans, rice, garlic salt, and dried onions.  That’s it.

Gourmet Version
This version is Trader-Joe’s dependent.  Well, I suppose you could buy these ingredients separately and chop them up yourself.  But I would never actually do that, so this recipe only happens if I’ve made a Trader Joe’s run.  I buy the Chopped Onions, Garlic & Shallots package.  (It’s by the Broccoli Slaw, between the bagged lettuce and the sandwiches). I sauté it and throw it in with the beans and some salt.  SO GOOD.  This is my favorite version.

Sneaky Vegetable Version
If I want to sneak in vegetables, I usually sauté them first, and then put them in the blender.  I’ve tried carrots, spinach, tomatoes, and celery.  My kids have never noticed.



I usually try to make up enough to feed us lunch for the whole week though sometimes we end up eating it with dinner, too.  It’s just so much easier to pull it out of the fridge than to cook something. Tonight we added chicken and corn.  Tomorrow it will go in the lunches with some cheese on top.   Sometimes we put it in burritoes (remember what I said about being crazy???  Man, this post is cutting-edge).  By Thursday we’ll be running low, so I’ll start a new batch before bed.

So, that’s our big revelation for feeding hungry kids on the cheap . . . beans and rice.  What’s yours?

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the best friends that weren’t

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It feels like so often, I write about specifics of our journey with Kembe just as issues are starting to resolve. I think it feels safer that way.  Things are getting better, every day.  He has become much more bonded to me in the last month.  I can see him relaxing into our relationship with each day, and the constant testing is becoming less constant.  I can see progress, even in the midst of challenge. 

One of the things about Kembe’s homecoming that has been particularly hard has been his relationship with Jafta.  So much of this struggle is based on unmet expectations, on my part and on Jafta’s.  We waited for Kembe to come home for three years.  Three years of Jafta knowing about him, visiting him in Haiti, and praying for him to come home every night.  Kembe was a constant topic of conversation for Jafta.  He talked about how much he loved him, how happy he was to be getting a brother, and how much he couldn’t wait for him to come home so they could play togehter.  We all talked about it. 



It is painful to admit that if I look back, Kembe never showed any reciprocal feelings towards Jafta during our visits.  He was indifferent at best.  Visits usually involved Jafta smothering Kembe for fifteen minutes, and then choosing to play with some of the older boys in the orphanage while Kembe ignored him.  Kembe was rarely warm or friendly to Jafta.  But we felt warm and friendly to him, and it went overlooked.




When Kembe arrived home, Jafta was like a little puppy dog . . . following him everyone, just so happy to have him home.  Kembe could do no wrong in his eyes.  Kembe is a very strong personality, and in contrast, Jafta tends to be extremely loyal and even a bit passive.  Kembe engaged with Jafta on two levels: he attempted to control him, or attempted to involve him in mischief.  It’s my hunch that the boys at the orphanage had a habit of trying to see what they could get away with when the nannies weren’t looking, and that this was a source of entertainment for them.  And really, isn’t this true of all kids?  Except this seemed to be the only way Kembe attempted to connect with Jafta – in engaging him in troublemaking when I turned my back.

 

Jafta, being the ever-loyal follower that he is, was completely confused by this.  He’s always been a pretty honest and compliant kid – but here is a new brother that he desperately wants acceptance from.  And in big ways and small, Kembe spent several months in our home breaking whatever rules we set, and trying to get Jafta to be his accomplice.  At one point, we got so sick of this dynamic that we stopped turning our backs on Kembe at all.  He got such a thrill from trying to see what he could get away with when an adult stepped out of view.  So we didn’t give him an opportunity.  He is always under supervision now – and as exhausting as this kind of hover-craft parenting is, it is exactly what Kembe needs.

Anyways, back to Jafta: once we took away the “bonding over a common enemy” dynamic, Kembe and Jafta started fighting even more.  Kembe really wanted to be alpha dog in the family, and for a long time Jafta was allowing it.  But we saw his anger and frustreation building up, and in family therapy we were encouraged to help Jafta reclaim his space as the big brother.  This was not easy.  It is still not easy. 
Kembe is a natural leader.  It is crazy.  We can go to a park, and five minutes later I might find Kembe (age three) in the middle of a football scrimmage with several junior-high boys, yelling at them about what the rules are.  When the older boys on the block come over, he has them playing out of his pocket.  Just tonight, we went to a neighborhood potluck and he got five school-aged girls to stand in a line and act as his cheerleaders every time he made a basket.  I couldn’t decide whether to be proud or horrified.  This kid is not lacking in confidence.  He knows how to work a room.  He has more street-smarts than the rest of us put together.  And those dimples don’t hurt, either.

Jafta, on the other hand, is shy and socially awkward.  He wears his heart on his sleeve and is easily defeated.  He over-analyzes and worries.  He is self-conscious and compares himself to others.  In the park scene I described above?  Jafta is sitting next to me pouting, because he is too nervous to go ask those older boys if he can play, and totally devstated that Kembe is now the darling of the group while he can't even get up the nerve to go over there.
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Then there is the competition factor.  Jafta is clearly older and more mature in all the ways that would be important to a teacher, or a psychologist, or a parent.  He has better impulse control and more empathy, and he shows great promise academically.  But he’s also five, and so his measure of “successs” involves sports, peer acceptance, and trampoline skills.  And I have to admit, Kembe excels at all of those things.  Jafta sees it.  And he hates it.  Kembe sees it, and he gloats about it.

Ugh.  It’s so painful to even write this out.  I know that sibling rivalry is normal, and that we are not the first family (or the last) to have these issues.  But it just seems so heartbreaking because Jafta had built up such expectations for what life would be like with a brother, and they have been crushed so terribly.  Kembe’s rejection of Jafta has been very hard to watch.

Harder still, because Kembe absolutely adores his sisters.  He dotes on Karis, following her around and making her laugh.  They have such a cute relationship.  And he and India really are like little twins.  Their friendship is easy and enthusiastic. They just love being around each other and seem to have a natural connection, unhindered by competition because they don't want to excel at the same things. 

Fortunately, Jafta does have a best friend that he is very close with, and fortunately we have had some great guidance from a family therapist.  We are working really hard to develop affection between our boys – even if that comes in the form of wrestling or playing football.  We are trying to teach Jafta to be more assertive, and we are trying to teach Kembe to be less bossy and controlling.  Most of all we are trying to show them both that they are deeply loved and special for who they are, and that they don’t need to compete for their place in our family . . . that there is room for both of them.

I’ve thought about writing about this for a while now, but it just seemed too personal and too difficult.  But tonight, I saw a little spark of hope that things could be improving. There was a moment where they were remembering an exercise from their football camp this summer.  They were trying to block each other, and laughing and falling, and then getting up and doing it again, and it just seemed like they were brothers.  I realized I had taken for granted how much work has gone into cultivating affection between my all of my kids, and how naïve and unrealistic it was to expect Kembe to jump right in.  I have definitely had to grieve and let go of the brothers I imagined they would be, and accept the strained yet budding relationship that they have.  I am praying that in time, it will grow.

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99 problems but hip dysplasia ain't one

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This week . . .  was not my best week.  It was one of those weeks with way too many things on the to-do list for one person, in part due to my inability to set boundaries for myself, and in part because of my knack for procrastinating.  I am terribly overcommitted right now in several areas, which is it’s own post, but I did finally get some resolution on a few things that were raising my stress level from moderate to DEFCON 5.

We have been living with a half-finished kitchen for almost a month now, since IKEA sent us the wrong cabinet fronts.  And without the cabinet fronts, we can’t install the drawers or the countertop, so half of the kitchen is a construction zone that IKEA had no desire to solve.  I got so fed up with their lack of response (and mysterious inability to receive my emailed pictures) that I posted the pictures online, along with the customer service responses I was getting.  I might have also posted a few screenshots of the emails they claimed they never received. Then I posted the website on their facebook page.  Several times.  Surprisingly, the issue was resolved the following day, and the cabinets that look like the ones I ordered are on their way.  Some people might call this “cyber-bullying”.  I like to call it “social media accountability”.

In other news, I attempted to get a better handle on my email inbox, which has been the bane of my existence for several months now (see above re: lack of boundaries/procrastination issues).  I decided that maybe I wouldn’t be several months behind in responding to people if only I had better access on my phone.  So I followed the advice of several tech-savvy friends who said I should forward my emails to the gmail interface.  Which I tried to do, leading to a black-hole 48 hours where emails where appearing and disappearing and shuffling and rearranging  . . . let me just say this: 1) I wish I had never heard of POP3 forwarding, 2) I’m still not sure what it is, 3) if you auto-forward your emails to one account and then have that account already set to auto-forward to the other account, what you think might happen WILL HAPPEN.  You remember those HP ads where someone takes a picture of a picture and then it’s a smaller picture and a smaller picture and it never ends?  Yeah.  THAT.  But I think I finally figured it out (along with that annoying gmail threading thing) and I set aside my morning today for whittling down my unanswered emails.  It started with over 6,000.  Tonight I am down to 4,268.  Progress.

(And lest you think all these emails are because I am terribly popular – have of them are undeleted facebook notifications, blog comments, junk mail, or spammed PR pitches.)

I washed my car yesterday.  All I can say about that is, my car was more neglected and full of crap than my email inbox. 

We were also able to come to some resolution about India’s mysterious symptoms.  For the better part of a week she was walking around with an exaggerated limp, and having pee accidents for the first time in over a year.  Of course I immediately consulted with a pediatrician Google and determined the probable cause to be either leukemia, muscular dystrophy, partial paralysis, or hip dysplasia.  I spent several days mourning the loss of her dancing career and wondering if she would still be able to have children. Until we finally took her to an actual healthcare professional, who took one look at her gait and said, “oh, that’s a constipation walk.”  So, several days and some laxative-infused smoothies later, and the issue seems to be resolved.  My tendency to catastrophize?  Still strongly in place.

We caught up to the current episode of Mad Men.  In a season marked by my seeming inability to follow-through, this felt like a big accomplishment.

 

And then, the birthday.  Kembe and India turn four in two weeks.  Which I realized like this:

Mark: How old do they have to be to be in that free church program?
Me: Four.  But just tell them they’re four in two weeks.
Mark: Their birthday is in two weeks?
Me;  OH. MY. GOSH. THEIR BIRTHDAY IS IN TWO WEEKS!?! WHEN DID THIS HAPPEN?  I’VE PLANNED NOTHING!  I AM A HORRIBLE MOTHER WHAT AM I GOING TO DO I CANNOT PLAN A PARTY RIGHT NOW NOOOOOOOOOO!!

I don’t know how this crept up on me, especially since India has been talking about her birthday party and the ever-changing theme and guest list since the day after her last birthday.  I knew that she wanted something related to High School Musical/princesses/ponies/ballet/Hannah Montana/Strawberry Shortcake.  And I knew that Kembe wanted something related to none of the above.  I am thrilled to say that Bears, Buddies and Toys has come to my rescue, because they do simultaneous Knight and Princess parties.  At their location. 

(Key phrase here: not at my house.)

So.  A few problems solved, for now.  Just a couple thousand emails to go, and a reminder to get a head-start in planning Jafta’s birthday.  Speaking of, Jafta has informed me that he would like his birthday to be just like Medieval Times, only in our backyard.  And for his present, he would like a spaceship that he can ride around in.

So that oughta be easy.

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what I want you to know: stillbirth

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I am truly blown away by the submissions and the comments to this idea of telling our stories, and seeking to understand.  I am posting the first today, about stillbirth.  While I have not experienced this personally, I do know the grief of multiple pregnancy losses, and I appreciate what Tara has to say:

My name is Tara Beth Warrick, I am 25 years old, I live in a small town in western North Carolina. I am a pediatric occupational therapist by vocation, a dance teacher for fun, and wife to a wonderful man. I am also a mother, but not a tangible or typical mother. This fact alone has re-shaped the lens through which I view and construct my entire life. My first baby, Scout, was stillborn on December 15, 2009. I parented by making choices while she was in the womb, and I parent her now as I make choices as to how to tell her story and give her short life purpose. I have planned a community-wide event, the first of its kind in my tiny town, for parents who have lost children via miscarriage, stillbirth, or infant death. You can see more details here: http://scoutingforhope.wordpress.com/

What I want you to know is that there are millions of families around you in everyday circumstances- at the grocery store, the post office, or even in that annoying line at IKEA, who are dealing with the loss of a child. I have been overwhelmed to learn of just how many of our babies leave us too soon, and I have been somewhat taken aback at the multitudes of parents that seem to take the very presence and good health of their living children for granted.



What I want you to know is that I define 'parenting' more loosely than most. I believe that you choose how you define it, and it does not have to be directed toward a biological, living child. I am a parent, I count. Mother's Day is for me too.

What I want you to know is that though men aren't 'supposed to talk about their feelings', there are a lot of men out there that are grieving a baby. It has been interesting to learn of men in my community who are still dealing with the sting of the loss of a child from decades ago.

What I want you to know that sometimes saying nothing at all is just as harmful as saying the 'wrong thing' to a grieving friend. Your presence and attention are more appreciated than you realize. You don't have to do the standard 'send a card' or 'send flowers' song and dance. Bring a friend some groceries. Mop her floors. Ask if he just wants to go for a walk. These gestures have been so meaningful to my husband and to me. I feel that we are called to carry the burdens of those around us so that the weight isn't so overwhelming.
What I want you to know is that is has been 39 weeks since I delivered my baby and I am still in deep sorrow over my little one. I am a follower of Jesus, and I believe He has so many wounds of mine to heal, and so many lessons to teach me.

What I want you to know is that I am terribly afraid of getting pregnant and terribly afraid of never getting pregnant again. Both options seem impossible some days.

What I want you to know is that you are a valuable, human being. You have purpose in this life. You are someone's baby. Maybe you are someone's parent. I appreciate what you are and what you will be. Let's take this attitude toward each other- that we are important in each other's stories and day to day lives. Thanks for allowing me to share a brief excerpt of my journey.

What would you like me to know?

***If you have a submission for this series, email me at howertons at hotmail dot com.

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what does it mean to be white?

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In my diversity class this evening, we will be discussing the identity of whiteness. I find that typically, white people have a really hard time defining their own culture . . . that we often see ourselves as either lacking in ethnic or cultural identity, or ascribing our personal culture as the default or “standard”.  So, tonight I will be asking students to come up with the cultural values and traditions that are practiced by white Americans. 

What would your answer be?

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what I want you to know: an introduction

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On occasion, I will have a little talk with myself about what I want this blog to be about.  (Beyond whining about things like crib sheets and the sizing at Forever 21, of course).  As much as I love to regale others with embarrassing tidbits of my daily life, I do want to put this space towards something meaningful from time to time.  I’ve been teaching a new class this semester . . . one on the impact of diversity on the psyche.  One of the assignments I’ve given each student is to write a personal exploration of their own diversity issues, and then read it to their classmates.  It has been amazing how much empathy and understanding has been gained from this exercise.  Perhaps more than any lecture I could prepare, the students are learning sensitivity by hearing the stories of others.

I think this is so true in blogging.  I can think of many times my views have been stretched by reading the experience of others.  I can think of times that I have been insensitive and have been called out.  There was a time two years ago that I joked about Jafta being “ready for the short bus” because of some ugly shoes.  A mom of a special needs child told me how hurtful that was, and I never forgot it.

I can also remember comments here that dismissed my own experience . . . that basically indicated, “you are the one with a different family, but why should we all have to care?”  I still feel that sting.

I think that at a surface level, most of us want to be compassionate and sensitive to others.  But I do think that certain barriers (lack of exposure, tolerance, defensiveness, etc) can ruin the best of intentions.  If only we could peel back the layers to our humanity, and really see where the other is coming from.

This is what I want to try, in this space, a couple times a month.  I’m starting a series called “What I Want You To Know”.  It is, quite simply, a place for you to share your story, and the sting that you want other people to be more sensitive of.  Maybe you are a single mom tired of the assumptions, or a mom of an autistic child who wants more understanding.  Maybe you are an interracial family.  Or a same-sex family.  Maybe you work.  Maybe you homeschool.  Maybe your kid is sick . . . really sick.  Maybe you are Mormon.  Or Muslim.  Or decided not to breastfeed.  Or can’t get pregnant.  Maybe you are depressed. 
I want you to tell us – what do you want us to know about your particular circumstance?  What is that burning thing that  you wish people would “get”? 

And then I want us to collectively reach across this little campfire of the blogosphere and hear each other.  We don’t have to agree.  We just have to listen.

I’m going to try to post someone’s story once a week.  If you have one to share, shoot me an email.

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motherhood pet peeves

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This is a vent.  This is purely a vent.  Should you like to read about actual problems in the world, go here.

But back to me and my astronomical issues.  I HATE CHANGING THE CRIB SHEETS.  I really do.  Taking off the crib bumper, pulling out the mattress, the tucking, the climbing.  I hate it.   I rarely do it. 

I also hate applying emolient lotions.  We have a lot of them in my house.  Jafta has eczema, Kembe's hair needs oil cream, Karis needs constant diaper rash cream.  And all of it leaves a slimey mess on my hands and creamy residue under my fingernails.  Mark and I actually fight every night about who has to apply the Eucerin.  And let's not even talk about that natural sunscreen goop, and how much force and rubbing is required to applying it.

So.

What do you hate doing?

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reason #187 why I hate IKEA

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I have always had a love/hate relationship with IKEA.  Today I am leaning a little more ttowards hate/hate.  The horrible cafeteria food, the "Smaland" that employs people who are annoyed by children, the way they try to make you walk through the entire showroom just to buy a cheap pack of straws, the fact that of 20 checkout lines, only four are EVER open . . .

But today took it to a whole new level.  We remodeled our kitchen in November.  As in, nine months ago.  After the flood, we need to buy a few new cabinets.  So I went on to IKEA's website and ordered the cabinets in the same name and finish as we bough in November.  (ADEL BIRCH, to be specific).  The packages had the same name, but what we received was not a birch finish, but rather a white-washed finish.




(Old door front on top, new wash on bottom).

This is the picture of the ADEL BIRCH cabinet from their website today.  Obviously they failed to change the name, description, and photo to reflect this new cabinet.

To make matters worse, we discovered this after all of the bases had been professionally installed, because I glanced to see that the bases matched (they are birch - the old birch) and assumed the fronts would as well.

I called IKEA, thinking that I would be offered a speedy apology and a refund for what is an obvious misrepresentation of product.  How naive of me.  Instead, I got an annoyed salesperson who kept reading off what was clearly a pre-written statement, "We are sorry for your inconvenience.  Product does change from time to time".  She must have repeated this five times.  I might have said something nasty about that fact.

Today I went into the store, and while I got a little more acknowledgement that IKEA had fouled up by not updating the photo, the conclusion was still the same: there's nothing we can do.

So . . . now we have installed cabinet frames, white cabinet fronts that do not match, and no solutions in sight.  Nothing that IKEA has in stock matches our kitchen.  We could rip out all the cabinet fronts and start over but that would cost a fortune.  We could try to find someone to custom-make a replica of the old fronts but I'm skeptical it would match.  We could do something totally different - paint them a color?  Every idea I come up with sounds tacky and expensive. 

What to do?

(and may I just mention, this decorating problem was actually not the most stressful part of my day, which included discovering some strange symptoms with India that could be pointing to luekemia but also could be constipation, landing us in the urgent care only to find out that our insurance has inexplically lapsed, coming home to find out water turned off (not having noticed the fire truck down the street fixing a line in the street) and ending with a total fiasco with our bank account because we paid for all of our home repairs upfront and the bank will not clear the freaking insurance check already.  So, yes.  Not my best day today, and my ire might have been unleashed on a slacker phone center employee at IKEA.  But seriously . . . they deserve it).

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swiftly fly the years

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Jafta had his first day of kindergarten yesterday.  With all of the chaos we’ve had in the last month, it really crept up on me, and I don’t think I anticipated how emotionally impactful it would be for all of us.  He has been a little agitated over the past few weeks, and I wondered if it was nerves about starting school.  But when I asked him, he seemed very positive and excited about kindergarten.  Finally, the day before the first day, he broke down and told me he was very worried, because a well-meaning older friend had given him the following information:

1. There are bullies at kindergarten
2. You have to know how to do math
3. There are hours and hours of homework every night.

I had to laugh about the bully fears since Jafta probably weighs double what half the kids in the class weigh.  I had a little pep talk with him about math, explaining that he would be learning the math in class, and that everyone would be learning together.  He seemed a bit relieved, but still had a really hard time sleeping that night.  He was up several times, and finally I let him come and sleep in our room.  As I cuddled up with him, I was flooded with emotion at how big he has gotten.  What happened to the little baby I used to cuddle with like this?  Now he is a BOY.  In that moment in the middle of the night with Jafta in my arms, I started feeling intense regret over not making more of my time with him at home, and began to seriously wonder if we were really ready to have him gone for so many hours of the day.  I started  reconsidering homeschool, just to have a little more intentional time with him.  I stared at his sleeping face and marveled at how fast he has grown from the baby we met for the first time in a stark social worker’s office in LA.  I really don’t have favorites with my kids . . . but there is just something special about that first child.  It was painful to acknowledge that he is entering a new stage that will move him just a little bit more in the direction of independence.

Halfway through my late-night meltdown, Karis and India woke each other up, and we ended up with three kids in our bed (my boundaries being trampled by my sappy melancholy about Jafta’s new milestone).  I held and kissed all of them tightly, and cried, and it was a bittersweet recognition the brevity of life with my kids, and my desire to connect with them as much as I can in these short years.  Had it not been the middle of the night, I might have broken into a refrain of “Sunrise, Sunset”.  It was a sweet moment . . . for about ten minutes.  Until Jafta kept kicking me in the head, and then Karis started crying, and then India tightened her death grip on my neck any time I moved.  And suddenly, this tender moment became really, really annoying, and I forced all of the children back to their beds amidst much crying and drama. 

I’m kind of glad I got the requisite “first child in kindergarten” weepiness over that night.  I woke up with a resolve that it was going to be great, for Jafta and for me, and he woke up really excited, too.  We took him to preschool as a family and allowed him to pack a wallet in his backpack to buy the hot lunch.  Buying his own lunch might be the highlight of the year for Jafta.  Here is the morning, in progression of emotions:

Concern

(Where are those bullies I’ve heard about?”

Trepidation

(Where is my friend Ryder?)

 Relief

(Ryder is here and he’s in my class!)

Excitement

(I am so big I get to buy my own lunch!)

 

Joy

(My teacher is nice AND pretty!)

  Anticipation

(Alright, let’s do this!)

Ambivalence

(Where’d my mom and dad go?)

 

And finally:

Resolve

(In his words: “Kindergarten is like totally awesome, mom!)

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